


Seeing Red

by Sectumsempra



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Daredevil - Freeform, Daredevil/Punisher - Freeform, M/M, The Punisher, Whiskey - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 14:30:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8405161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sectumsempra/pseuds/Sectumsempra
Summary: "Hey, Altar Boy?""Mm?""Maybe it's time you tell me your name?"Daredevil/Punisher drabble.





	

You lower the glass of whiskey from your lips - the drink is corner-store cheap and the afterburn so sharp it's nearly not pleasant at all - narrowing your focus to the man moving towards you;

you know your apartment by heart, every nook and cranny, every sharp corner and potential weapon; the kitchen counter against your back, the couch that Frank steps around on his way: a fight here wouldn't be fair because you know just how to use it to your advantage, but then, that isn't why he is coming.

When he fights, when he kills, his heart drums evenly; _one batch two batch penny and dime_ \- he does everything with a cold detachment that is much more terrifying than rage.

Now, there's his heartbeat and his breathing, talking to you like an involuntary morse code, letting you know why he's approaching.

Then he is in front of you and all the different impressions that are _him_ are so close you may as well be touching. ”You know, Red,” he mumbles, and the warmth of him, the scent of him, the sounds of him – his breathing and his heartbeat and the skin of his hands as they move against each other – are enough to shatter your focus, make your head spin. ”The way you fight gets a man all hot and bothered.”

It's a strange thing to hear Frank say. You mumble ”I bet you say that to all the vigiliantes.”

And Frank laughs, a soft sound, low and dark. It's difficult to fathom a laugh like that can come from a man who has massacred rooms full of people, has killed men like ants, has done so without a second thought. There is a silence during which you are very aware of Frank touching the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other, a type of self-comfort, one that seems odd and out of character.

”You uh...”

”Hm?”

”You ever gotten kissed by a man?” You smile, not surprised, has known his intentions since he took the first step from the other side of the living room, but still new to the situation, to him being close like this.

”Never. Am I about to be?”

”Would you mind?”

And Claire and Foggy and Karen are all disappointed in you, are all out of reach while Frank isn't, Frank is very much within reach, is the only one not looking at you with disappointment – you may not be able to see their eyes but you know, can hear it in their voices and feel it in the way they tense around you - and it's just for tonight and why the hell not. So you shake your head.

”I wouldn't mind.” You allow him to take the glass out of your hand and set it aside, wonders if he likes the taste of poor-quality whiskey.

He comes even closer, his torso against yours, smells like gunfire and blood. When you touch him, your hands travelling up his arms, stroking his stubbled jawline with your thumb, he feels like no one you have ever been close to in this way before. Is strong and rough and if he wanted to lift you onto the counter behind your back, there is no doubt he could.

You expect kissing him will be a little bit like fighting him, hard and teethy and rough enough to leave you breathless, but it's nothing like that. It's slow and intense like a tasting, like something you want to savour.

You recall the way the room at the biker club reeked with blood, the metallic scent so thick it made it hard to breathe, the way it only is when several people has bled out in the same small space. Now the cause of that is holding on to you as if for dear life, and you realize you may very well be the first person Frank kisses since the death of his wife. May be the last person he ever kisses if he insists on pursuing his one-man war.

It's an odd kind of honour.

Frank pulls back. Mumbles ”I like that whiskey you're having,” and his hands go down your sides, over your ribs, past your waist, stills on your hips – sends goosebumps on their way and for a moment you consider taking the kiss further, but decide against it. Perhaps the next one, if Frank takes the lead, if that's where he wants to go you'll follow – but this first one wasn't the kind that leads to clothes being ripped off on the way to bed. You're about to offer him a taste of the actual whiskey when he speaks again. ”Hey, Altar Boy?”

”Mm?”

”Maybe it's time you tell me your name.” You smile.

”Not yet.”

”No? You still don't trust me with your name?”

”It's not that,” you say. ”I just really like it when you call me Red.”


End file.
